


Six minutes and thirty-five seconds.

by laNill



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Flirting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, it's like zero nsfw - like just an hint, kind of fluff, shame of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27192784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laNill/pseuds/laNill
Summary: Vil walks with a poisonous elegance and dominance all his own. He step the ground as he could step on any other person. Sweet would be death by his hand, slow and excruciating; like a dessert too sweet, cloying and nauseating, but so beautiful and tasty that you can't live without it._“Desserts are not my strong point, and despite everything I come here to taste the ones you prepare. Not everyone is so lucky.”“You honor me.”The laugh that comes from Vil's throat is warm, almost hoarse, full and vibrant. He would listen him to the point of madness.“Liar.”
Relationships: Trey Clover/Vil Schoenheit
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Six minutes and thirty-five seconds.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a little thing a write almost two months ago; i decided to post it for our dearest Trey for his birthday <3  
> im sorry if this is a mess, it's the first ff i write for this fandom too yay  
> if u guys think something is off please don't hesitate to tell me in the comments! :D  
> That said, thank you and enjoy.

.

The clock strikes the seconds in a deep, slow tick. Its hands don’t move - they have never moved as long as he can remember. The dial is crooked, the glass cracked, but the gear produces the repetitive, high-pitched mechanical sound of the beating of the seconds.

The spoon slowly turns around inside the amber liquid.

White porcelain and lilac gardenias against the white lace tablecloth. _His_ favorite color.

The fragrant smell of jasmine and coriander spiced cream fills the room.

Everywhere is the pungent smell of tea, the glossy sweet flavor of cinnamon cake and strawberry jam with fresh fruits balanced on top. Chocolate and almond cookies, sweet colorful macarons like gleaming jewels, flowery flakes like rose petals floating in clear jelly, cut into diamond shapes and served with wild red berries; the delicate chink-clink-chink of tea cups, small ceramic cups for sipping.

He arranges everything with programmed calm, as in a temporal script where everything was already established. He does so, with the comfort of a ritual that has become a habit.

Trey is never in a hurry, he marks his commitments with academic precision. He knows that his time is sipped, his presence required, his duties wedged like pieces on a chessboard with very precise times and ways. His life is marked by time as his cakes have to be cooked at the right temperature and take out at the perfect consistency.

Trey is never in a rush, but he always keeps an eye on the broken clock.

Even if it doesn't work, he has learned to understand the hard stroke of the half hour or the shaky arrival of the quarter, or the broken sound at the reaching of the full hour.

 _He_ always arrives a few minutes late.

But that too, Trey, has begun to predict on his schedule.

‘ _A queen is never late; if anything, everyone else is early_." He said one sunny autumn afternoon, his sweetly purple tinted lips against the sugar paper edge of the teacup, head elegantly tilted; his perfect hair absorbing the dying afternoon light in a golden halo, bathing him in a wrong sanctity.

Trey smiles at the thought.

He places the silverware next to the cups. The dessert plates next to the teacup, the riser at the center of the table – above it, the cake that he had chosen that day.

Usually it's Carter who sets the table for Riddle, Deuce sets all the plates and glasses and sweets up and Ace does some damage or break something that he would have immediately hidden and buried somewhere in the garden.

That day of the week, however, for an appointment that has become a silent habit, it’s he who does everything.

The ticking of the clock’s hand vibrates, and Trey begins to pour the tea.

A sweet fragrant smells the room. 

The slow footsteps of heels over the white marble of the school overlap the sound of the clock and the click-clack of the porcelain. _He_ walks confidently, with the same step as someone who knows he has the world at his feet - even Riddle had that dominant cadence, but with a touch of arrogance that could make him acrid.

*Vil walks with a poisonous elegance and dominance all his own. He step the ground as he could step on any other person. Sweet would be death by his hand, slow and excruciating; like a dessert too sweet, cloying and nauseating, but so beautiful and tasty that you can't live without it.

He greets him with a smile as he enters the room, and the slice of cake on the saucer.

“You are radiant today.” Trey greets him.

“I always am, _mon cher_.” he smiles vainly. Vil's smiles can be categorized according to his mood. That, was pure malice.

He sits in a rustle of silk, Trey holds his chair before sitting down at the other side of the round coffee table. The smile this time opened, folded into a milder and shrewd one. Vil looks at him as he always does, under the fan of pale eyelashes, as if he wanted to reveal a secret that he keeps to himself.

Forty-seven seconds.

“You're not angry with Leona anymore, I suppose.”

A small grimace, delicious and light, fingers brushing the round handle of the cup to bring it to his lips.

“I still argue that he should keep his wild animals at bay. My Epel still jumps like a cricket when one of them approaches. Savage, rude beasts, all of them.”

“It was an accident; it wasn't Jack's intention.”

“The fact is that it's not admissible.”

Trey doesn't argue, he knows he has his own principles and reasons. Vil savor the rosemary and cardamom tea he chose for that afternoon; not one of Riddle's favorite tastes, but he knows Vil appreciates anything that's good for the body.

“But I had my satisfaction today, so I'm in a good mood.”

“May I know why?”

Vil's smile becomes more subtle, purple eyes vibrate with a warm, tingly light given by the sun that hits them sideways; they have the color that certain sunsets have, velvet red mixed with peach and deep orange. Hypnotic; if he had been a painter he would have wanted to try to paint them. But he only knows how to make cakes and would like to give them all to him.

“I'll tell you, but only because it's you.”

Trey lowers his eyes, humble in his way of accepting Vil's veiled compliments. He is not used to - to be looked at in that way, to be someone's secret chest, to be fondled, perhaps even desired.

Not from eyes or lips like those of someone as dazzling as Vil.

One minute and fifty-seven.

“I did a photo shoot for a magazine. Two years ago that photographer had the courage to relegate me to the twentieth page, with photos of bad quality and taste. I was young, I didn't care - but I remembered the name of the man who photographed me.” The cake is still on the plate, Vil looks at it, touches the edge of the spoon with languid slowness. “He photographed me again the other day. He filled me with compliments. I’ve got the front page. To thank him, I gouged out his eyes.” His voice is delighted, his smile almost shine with passionate as if he was madly in love.

He is terrifying and utterly gorgeous like this – powerful and evil and divine.

Trey sighs in a hint of a smile.

He drinks from his cup with as much time as Vil wants to give him.

Two minutes and twenty-nine seconds.

“Haven't you been too magnanimous? You gave him the greatest of gifts, if he could see you one last time before he died.”

“Don’t you think?” The eyes sparkle, a distorted light hits them. Cruelty becomes divine perfection on his jade face and on his curved lips as sweet as sugar cakes and poisonous as death.

For a moment he feels his chest tighten.

The cake tastes cloying in the mouth. The clock strikes the seconds in an almost annoying way.

Crowley would have silenced too insinuating rumors, kept their mouths silent, closed eyes and ears too indiscreet. And surely he would have made a fuss. But Vil would not have touched any of his accusations. Too satisfied and glorious of himself to care.

“Don't make that expression, _mon cher_. He didn't feel too much pain. It’s nothing compared to the grace granted by the undersigned. I had flawless makeup, of course.”

“I would never question it. You are always perfect.”

Vil smiles, perfectly aware of himself, taking a heavier sip of tea.

“Mh- Perfect as you and the tea you choose to serve me.” He observe the liquid with a slight yellow tinge, inhale the smell, and his shoulders relax against the edge of the upholstered chair. “What did you choose for me this time?”

“Rosemary, to increase metabolism, and cardamom, as an antioxidant and refreshing.”

Vil seems to be delightfully surprised, his gaze barely opens, then his lips stretch like a spring sky. He touches a lock of blonde hair, the tip just tinged with purple tickles the lips of the same color.

The word that crosses his mind for the way he looks at him is: sweet.

But Vil cannot be defined with such adjective.

“You always have a thought for me, in our little meetings. You are really thoughtful.”

Trey puts a hand to his chest, accepts the thanks with humility.

“I want it to be a pleasure.”

“Oh, don't doubt. It is, immensely.” Fingers touch the edge of the table, reach for the hat Trey left on the table; plays with a red silk ribbon border. “Desserts are not my strong point, and despite everything I come here to taste the ones you prepare. Not everyone is so lucky.”

“You honor me.”

The laugh that comes from Vil's throat is warm, almost hoarse, full and vibrant. He would listen him to the point of madness.

“Liar.” He runs a finger over his lips, bending his head.

Trey looks at him sorry, smiles because he knows that Vil reads him better than even Carter. It is almost shocking how he manages to understand him and read his moods.

“I'm sorry, I'm not that honest and upright.” he says, taking a piece of cake. But it is more the desire to watch and listen to Vil than not eat him. It destabilizes him every time. Trey smiles, with an almost fierce, wild smile that knows how to fascinate the head of the Pomefiore.

Trey reads it in his bright eyes like a girl who has just received a thunderbolt. “Actually, you don't honor me by saying that someone saw you before they died. There is someone luckier than me.” Trey’s hands clench unconsciously, tick the fork on the saucer, slowly and without pause, miming the sound of the clock ticking to reflect. A dark shadow has fallen over the eyes, highlighting the amber eyes behind the short green fringe. “And you haven't even touched my cake. I should be more offended than honored.”

Vil observes everything, and enjoys every change in his mood, his beautiful face, the ferocity that Trey cages behind his glasses and his gentle smile.

“Not today, Trey. No cake or biscuits I'm afraid.” The young man with the lips of sugar and poison answers, pushing aside the saucer of the almost finished tea. “But I'd like to try those.”

Trey looks in the direction of the finger, turns to see if it's the clock he's pointing. He raises his eyebrows, “The hands of the clock?”

Vil's giggle rings in the room.

“Your lips, _mon cher_. I want your lips. Can you grant them to me in exchange for your forgiveness?” He asks shamelessly, brushing his own with a fingertip and a blush that Trey mistakes for the dying sunlight behind the pale window curtains.

His heart clutches at the thought, rage recedes and melts like ice exposed at too much sun. There is not an ounce of modesty in Vil's eyes; instead there is the absolute certainty of being able to do whatever he want and being able to immerse himself in what he like best without being accountable to anyone.

Five minutes and fifty-six seconds.

Trey feels a gurgling in the pit of his stomach, a hunger that not even the cake with Vil or the afternoon tea with Riddle have fed.

Vil shivers as Trey stands up, a delightful thrill in his lower abdomen that causes his mouth to open and his back to recline in his chair.

He waits like a queen to be given what he has been waiting for from the moment he walked in there.

“You already have my forgiveness, my queen.”

Vil purses his lips, a delightfully adorable pout.

“He was just an insignificant person, Trey.”

“He had the honor of having your hands on him.” One hand rests on the edge of the chair, the other rests on the table, casting the shadow of his body over Vil, hiding him from the last sunlight.

He looks down on him, and Vil enjoys that feeling of domination that emanates from him. He surrounds his neck, touching his skin, barely untying his tie. He does it with an eroticism that is not vulgar, but refined, sensual in his way of blinking, bending his head, opening his mouth.

Fingers caress a cheek, under the eyes, the thumb in contact with the edge of the cheekbone.

“I love your eyes too much to tear them off, _mon coeur_ , but I will try to do something else and make it as painfully slow and atrocious fulfilling as possible. Can it fit?”

Trey smiles at him, the whiteness of his teeth opens into a crescent moon, a predatory smile; fire sizzles in his eyes that he keeps at bay only for his extreme gallantry towards him.

He stops being modest at times, it’s in those moments that Trey drives Vil crazy.

“I can grant it.”

Six minutes and thirty-five- ..

He devour his lips like he would eat a cake. It tastes sweet, Vil, an intense flavor as he bites, licks off the lipstick that smears his own mouth; he knows of those elegant flavors - chantilly cream, creme caramel - in which he can perceive the hint of poison that he hides just below. He kisses him softly, untying his hair behind his neck and letting it frame his beautiful, sharp face.

Vil lets him do it, he lets himself be dominated because he enjoys seeing others do it - giving him the thrill of possibility only to snatch it away from him. And Trey knows that he feels enjoyment in this, and for this very reason he indulges him, anticipating his moans and his gaze swollen with poison and enjoyment as he rides him within the walls of his room without letting him escape.

He would let himself die, with those eyes on him.

Entangled in his cage of golden hair, Trey can almost feel the divine spark thrumming under Vil’s skin, pulsing in his blood with each breathless gasp he drinks him up, each whimper falling from his plush lips.

Below him, Trey let himself cages inside his long, strong hands, claws biting his skin while Vil rides him, setting and imposing a punishing, relentless, agonizing pace; long slow thrusts that Vil feels to his very core – warm laughs dripping from his lips and echoing over the room.

Vil’s happily and sweetly driving his life out of him.

Trey is increasingly convinced that the end of many was a benevolence on the part of Vil.

And as he takes his hand in his, making him rise while kissing him, clinging to each other, Trey forgets the hour, the minutes, the seconds he will steal from his next engagement.

It had taken twenty-four minutes to make that cake.

Forty-six to bake it, and another six to put the icing and finish his work. Five more to set the table and eight late from Vil.

The clock has always ticked, marking Trey's time. It reminds him that he has to do a lab review tour in eleven minutes and thirty-five seconds, go to dinner in another thirty-five, and then report any unruly cases to Riddle for another ten fifty-seven, before going to sleep by a quarter past ten.

But after the six minutes and thirty-five seconds in which Vil took possession of his soul, the clock stopped making noise.


End file.
